Fellowship Tales to Cure Boredom and Raise Spirits
by KS-fan
Summary: Gandalf tries to cure the Fellowship's boredom by telling stories about thier youth. Please R/R. Please! PS, I'm sticking this under Frodo and Aragorn to make it easier to find (for me). It's really about everyone in the fellowship (eventually).
1. Frodo and the Dragon

Hey, everyone! This story is about Gandalf curing the boredom and low spirits of the Fellowship by telling funny stories about their youth. You get a different character in each chapter. I tried to stay away from fluff, but failed a little in chapter 2 (coming soon). PLEASE READ AND REVIEW! Rating- G (nothing offensive here). Archive- sure.  
  
AN: Because many of the races in Middle Earth age differently, I'm going to put an age equivalency in the authors note. For example, in this story, Frodo is twelve, which is equal to about a seven-year-old human.  
  
****************************************************************** Fellowship Tales to Cure Boredom and Raise Spirits  
  
The sky was aglow with bright colors as the sun set in the west, her diminishing rays warming the shoulders of nine weary travelers in the abandoned land of Hollin. They were climbing up a hill toward a clearing in the trees, the oldest by about 18,000 years in the lead. He wore gray robes and a large pointy hat, and he looked back on his fellow hikers with impatience.  
  
"Come now," Gandalf said to the others. "We will camp on the top of this hill tonight."  
  
The company reached the hilltop a moment later, save the four hobbits, who lagged behind like tired children. They approached the campsite only a few minutes behind the others, collapsing to the ground.  
  
"Well, that's it," said Pippin. "Everyone can just continue without me, because I am never moving from this spot again."  
  
"And what a terrible loss it would be," joked Aragorn. "Who would we have to complain?" He was in a good mood, as he usually was at the start of a journey, but he was one of the few.  
  
"Now that wasn't very nice, Mr. Strider," Sam said. "Well, I suppose we'll all feel better after a nice dinner. Do potatoes sound good to everyone?"  
  
"NO!," they all exclaimed. Sam was a good cook, but everyone was rather sick of potatoes. He looked back at them with a hurt expression.  
  
"I'm sorry Sam," Frodo apologized, "We all like your potatoes, but it would be nice to have something different tonight."  
  
Sam nodded. "I'll see what I have."  
  
After a hot dinner (that did *not* include potatoes), the travelers sat back to relax and smoke their pipes in the cheerless backdrop. Gandalf looked around. Frodo sat with Sam, cleaning off the dishes in silence. Boromir was sharpening his sword on a rock and staring out into the darkness, his face lined with worry. Must be thinking of Gondor Gandalf thought. Aragorn sat next to Gandalf, deep in thought as well. Gimli was starting a fire, and Legolas was working on staying as far away from Gimli as possible. Merry and Pippin were the only ones talking-that is, Merry was talking. Pippin was listening with wide, frightened eyes. Gandalf tried to catch a bit of their conversation.  
  
"I'm serious, Pip," Merry spoke gravely. "I've heard about the wild creatures that live beyond Rivendell. Wolves, with teeth as big as your fingers, ready to rip you in--"  
  
"That will be enough of that, Merry," Gandalf scolded him. "There's no use in scaring your cousin like that."  
  
"I wasn't scared!" Pippin protested from his hiding place under the blanket.  
  
Gandalf bent down and lifted the corner of the blanket, reveling Pippin's face. "Even so, there is no need to talk about such creatures." He glanced up at Merry. "Although, you may have had the right idea." Gandalf turned back to the rest of the Fellowship. "Everyone! Let's gather round the fire and tell stories to pass the time."  
  
His suggestion was met with lukewarm enthusiasm. Boromir and Aragorn argued that they had things to think about.  
  
"There will be much time to think all you want while we hike tomorrow. This should be a time to relax. Now get over here!" The Fellowship, not in the mood to argue, reluctantly obeyed. "Good," said Gandalf. "Now which story should I tell first?"  
  
"Tell about the time Frodo went looking for a dragon!" Pippin exclaimed. The group turned to look at him. There was no escaping the fact that hobbits of all ages love hearing stories, and four sets of excited eyes watched Gandalf speak.  
  
Gandalf laughed. "Oh yes, *that* story." He turned to the rest of the group. "You will all soon learn that these hobbits never grow tired of hearing stories about themselves. Now let's see, how did it go? Oh yes, I remember. This story took place when Frodo was a young hobbit lad of twelve. I had come to Hobbiton to visit Bilbo and I had brought some old friends--"  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
"Frodo, you should have seen your uncle Bilbo!" the dwarf thundered, his wildly expressive arms seeming to shake the walls of Bag End. "Why, he charged in to that dragon's lair with Sting drawn and ready, prepared to slay the beast and recover the treasure!"  
  
"Now don't be making things up, Thorin," Bilbo warned him. "I did nothing of the sort. I sneaked in past the dragon and prayed he wouldn't wake up. There was no slaying on my part. You'll give Frodo the wrong idea."  
  
Gandalf glanced at the young hobbit. It was already quite clear that Frodo had the wrong idea, his big eyes fixed on the dwarves. Frodo may have heard the correct version of the story many times, but it no longer mattered. From now on he would remember it with Bilbo charging in the cave, Sting in hand. Gandalf sighed. "I think perhaps Frodo has heard enough stories." He turned to Frodo. "Why don't you run and play while we talk?" The adults left for the dinning room.  
  
After a story like that, Frodo was so full of energy he could hardly think strait. I'll go see if Sam can play. We could go dragon hunting! he thought. He ran off to get his coat. On the way to his room, Frodo noticed something hanging on the wall. It was Sting, his uncle's sword and prized possession. Frodo had seen it many times, but today-it seemed to shine extra bright. He licked his lips greedily. I'll just borrow it for a little while. Bilbo will never know He looked around carefully before lifting the weapon from its resting spot. Quickly, he escaped out the door.  
  
Once outside, Frodo knew he'd have to get some place he wouldn't be seen. If he was caught with such an item, it meant certain and severe punishment. He looked off to the west and saw that the wood's edge was not far away. It would be perfect.  
  
"I am Frodo, brave warrior and slayer of dragons!" Frodo cried once he was in the safety of the trees. "I rescue fair maidens and recover lost treasures!" He took a few jabs in the air with his sword, skewering some imaginary foe. "Now I shall hunt a dragon." He began walking north through the thick bushes underfoot.  
  
He walked for a long while along a brook, humming an elvish song about the elf warriors that lived in Mirkwood. Naturally, the woods around Hobbiton looked nothing like the dark forest of Mirkwood, but that didn't stop Frodo's overactive imagination from conjuring tall, twisted trees and thick fog. Every so often, he would play at fighting a dragon or an evil knight bent on attacking a town. It began to dawn on him, however, that he might not find any dragons in the Shire-well, at least not in this part of the Shire. Perhaps they lived near Tuckbourgh.  
  
Suddenly he heard a rustle in the bushes. Frodo quickly drew his sword and prepared himself to fight a dragon of enormous size. "Show yourself, you fire-breathing fiend!" he shouted bravely. It did just that- out of the bushes emerged the biggest dog Frodo had ever seen in his life.  
  
For a moment, the dog and the hobbit simply stared at one another, Frodo's big, blue eyes locked onto the dog's brown ones. Then, playfully leaping, the mangy mutt barked and trotted towards Frodo.  
  
With a shriek, Frodo panicked and dropped his uncle's prized sword as he darted away through the trees. The dog, rather disappointed, ran off in search of a friendlier playmate.  
  
Certain that the very hounds of hell were on his heals, Frodo flew through the trees in a blind panic. He glanced back over his shoulder, seeking his pursuer. Before it registered in his mind that the dog may have given up, his foot hit a rock and he went flying head first down an embankment and into the deep brook.  
  
Splash! He hit the water with a painful impact, only made worse by the icy temperatures stinging his skin. Struggling with all his might, he kicked hard and propelled himself to the surface. "Help! Help!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. Few hobbits have the ability to swim, and Frodo certainly wasn't one of them. Fighting to stay at the surface, he looked around frantically for anything that might become a handhold, a tree limb, a rock, anything. "Help!" he shouted one last time in vain, before slipping under the water, waiting to meet a similar fate as his parents.  
  
Just as he thought his lungs might burst from holding in his breath, he felt a hand grasp his and pull him from the freezing brook. "Hang on, I got ya," he heard a voice say. Frodo looked up to see Farmer Cotton pulling him ashore. "My goodness, son!" he said to the frightened, shivering young hobbit. "You must be chilled to the bone! Come back to my house and we'll get you dried up."  
  
"Wait!" Frodo cried. "My uncle's sword! I dropped it! He'll never forgive me!"  
  
Farmer Cotton looked concerned. "In the water?"  
  
"No, when I saw the dragon."  
  
"Sorry-what?"  
  
Less than an hour later, Frodo found himself wrapped in a blanket standing at Bilbo's front door next to Farmer Cotton. "-So I reached into the water and pulled this little guy out. Good thing I was close by or he wouldn't have had a shot." He ruffled Frodo's hair, much to the little hobbit's annoyance. "Oh yeah, and we found this in the woods nearby." Cotton handed Sting to Bilbo. "Frodo says it's yours-something about a dragon?" The farmer looked truly confused.  
  
Bilbo glared at Frodo with a stare that would send the many minions of Moria back to their dark hiding places. "Yes-thank you, Mr. Cotton. Frodo, don't you have something to say?"  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Cotton, for saving me," Frodo mumbled softly. He hung his head, dreading what was certain to be the lecture and punishment to beat all. He was not disappointed.  
  
"Of all the stupid things you've done, Frodo, this one takes the cake!" Bilbo bellowed once they were back in the house. "Do you know what could have happened to you? Wandering alone-and with a sword?! You could hurt yourself! Swords are not playthings, they are weapons, and they are dangerous! And near the brook! Need I remind you how your parents died?" Bilbo grimaced a little at that one. He had gone to far, bringing the boy's parents into it. He saw Frodo's lower lip shake and heard him sniffle. "No Frodo, don't cry," he said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."  
  
"I'm not crying, uncle Bilbo. I'm just cold," Frodo said with a shiver. Bilbo then noticed that Frodo's lip was not shaking, but his teeth sure were chattering.  
  
"Why, my boy, you'll catch cold! We should get you into some dry clothes, and then into bed." They were walking off to Frodo's room when Gandalf walked in.  
  
"What's all the commotion?" the old wizard asked.  
  
Bilbo sighed. "This little imp," he complained, "not only stole my sword to play with, but he also fell into the brook and will likely catch a nasty cold."  
  
The wizard stared down at Frodo and shook his head, but there was a bright twinkle in his eye. "Tsk, tsk. Frodo, you know better that that. I imagine you have quite a punishment ahead of you."  
  
Frodo glared back at Gandalf with a scowl for reminding Bilbo that he deserved a punishment. Bilbo noticed. "Oh, don't you be sore with Gandalf, you earned a reprimand yourself. Besides," he added, "don't think I forgot about what you did just because you played sick and made a sad face."  
  
"If it's alright with you, Bilbo," Gandalf cut in, "Before I go to meet the dwarves in the tavern, I know an excellent treatment for preventing a cold, that will also linger in Frodo's memory as a harsh reminder not to EVER take anyone else's things."  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
"What did you make him do?" asked Merry, although he already very much knew.  
  
Gandalf smiled. "After some tea, I made him drink near a quarter of a bottle of caster oil, one spoonful at a time," he said. "And after every swallow, I made him say--"  
  
"-I will never take Bilbo's sword again!" Frodo finished with a laugh. "And what a horrible punishment it was." He wrinkled his nose. "I can still taste the stuff."  
  
Boromir made a face. He was altogether too familiar with Gandalf caster oil cure for colds-and-whatever-else-is-wrong-with-you from his own childhood. "Well," he said, "I'll bet THAT was a lesson that stuck."  
  
"Indeed," laughed Frodo. "From that day until Rivendell, I never even thought of laying my hands on that sword. In fact, when it was finally offered to me, I was a little reluctant to take it."  
  
"Tell another story, Gandalf!" Pippin cried. "Tell the one about--"  
  
"Not tonight, Peregrin. I have things to discuss with Aragorn about tomorrow's journey. Perhaps at tomorrow's camp." Gandalf rose and walked off with Aragorn. As he left the fire, however, he heard Merry say, "Don't worry, Pip. I'll tell you a story." His voice became threatening. "They say a giant, poisonous snake lives out in these parts. Most think he's at least fifteen feet long, just waiting for a hobbit-sized treat to munch--" Gandalf could only shake his head and sigh. 


	2. Aragorn and the Elves

A/N: Hey, I'm so sorry you guys. I wanted to update sooner, but my computer hates me and it took me a week to fix it. Daylight, Inyx, and Jolopy, thanks so much for your reviews! I'm glad you liked it thus far. I own nothing.  
  
Ok, after I wrote this, I went in search of little Aragorn stories, and discovered, to my horror, that this has been done ten thousand times before...so I'm doing it again.  
  
When I thought this story up, I promised myself that I'd avoid fluff like the plague. So, naturally, here's some fluff.  
  
Age equivalency: I know that, because of his lineage, Aragorn lives a long time, but I thought it would just be easier to have him aging like a normal human child. Therefore, eleven= eleven.  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
"Lousy wind," grumbled the dwarf as he struck the flint rocks together in hope of a spark. "What I wouldn't give for the shelter of a cave!"  
  
Shaking his head, Legolas walked over to the center of the clearing. "Give me those," he said with great annoyance, taking the flint from Gimli's hands. Carefully, shielding the wood with his body, he knocked the two rocks together a few times until he produced sparks significant enough to start the wood burning. "It's all in the wrist, Master Dwarf," he said, tossing the flint pieces back to Gimli. Snarling, the dwarf muttered something under his breath not often heard in polite company.  
  
The Fellowship quickly gathered around the fire for light and warmth. During the day, a cold wind had blown down from the mountaintops, and there wasn't a member of the group who wasn't chilled to the bones. Breathing into his hands in an attempt to warm them up, Boromir ransacked the contents of his pack for the third time, and then a fourth. Finally, with great frustration he turned the pack over, spilling the contents all over the campsite.  
  
"Alright!" he yelled. "Which one of you stole my blanket?"  
  
"Merry has it!" Pippin yelled back with great glee. He quickly received a sharp punch in the shoulder from his older cousin. "Pippin! Honestly, I thought we had an agreement. You don't say anything and we can share it."  
  
"Aw, it's not fair to let Boromir go cold, even if he does have the best blanket in the Fellowship," Pip said.  
  
"Quite right, little one," Boromir remarked as he snatched back his fur-lined blanket. "And I best not catch you with this again, Merry."  
  
Pippin was about to object to the phrase 'little one' when Gandalf announced, "Anyone who wants to hear a story, stay around the fire. Anyone who doesn't can go sit over there in the cold." He pointed off toward a big rock.  
  
No one seemed too thrilled with the idea of relinquishing their warm spot by the fire in favor of a cold rock in the dark, so Gandalf momentarily had all of their attention.  
  
"Gandalf," Pippin said with a grin, "Tell the one about--"  
  
"-Now wait a minute, Pippin," Gandalf broke in. "We've already heard a story about hobbits acting foolish." He looked at Aragorn with great amusement. "I would like to tell a story about Aragorn acting foolish."  
  
Aragorn broke out into a grin. "Gandalf, when was the last time I did * anything * foolish?"  
  
"Not for a long while, I'll admit," claimed Gandalf. "But if I remember correctly, a few stories from your childhood are still being told in Rivendell."  
  
"You knew Strider when he was a boy?" Frodo asked.  
  
"Of course," he answered. "There's not a one of you I haven't known since you were born. I was even present at most of the parties celebrating your coming into the world."  
  
"Well, it doesn't matter * how * long you've known me," Aragorn said. "You must be mistaken. I was never the disobedient type at any age."  
  
Gandalf looked at him wryly, the sarcasm in his eyes all too evident. "Oh, really."  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
"Estel, hurry UP!" Meneldaion called down to the boy.  
  
Suspended in a sea of green leaves, Aragorn scaled the tree, working his way up to the branch where two elven brothers waiting impatiently. Sweat poured down his eleven year old brow as he grunted from the strain of pulling his body weight up onto the next limb. "Almost there," he muttered to himself.  
  
From above the elder of the two young elves looked down with disgust. "ESTEL! I said get up here!" Meneldaion shouted. He turned to his younger brother Benethion. "Why do you always bring him along, anyway?" he said, making no attempt to quiet his voice to spare Aragorn's feelings.  
  
"Oh, you know Mother makes me play with him because he's Elrond's son." Smirking, the elf added, "In a matter of speaking."  
  
Below, a mixture of anger and harsh defeat crossed Aragorn's young face. None of the elves ever wanted to play with him because he couldn't run as fast or climb as high as they could, and they often told him that he was slowing down their games, so could he please leave? He stood on the branch and allowed himself a moment of self-pity before hardening his face. He was never one to admit defeat.  
  
"I can do anything as well as any elf," he whispered to himself as he began to climb once again.  
  
"Listen to him talk," laughed Benethion from high in the tree.  
  
Aragorn cursed the all-hearing ears of the elves and continued. "I can do anything as well as any elf," he said again, cheering himself on. "I can do anything--" His face twisted with the effort as he hoisted himself up another limb.  
  
Branch by branch, he pulled himself up the tree, straining all his muscles, digging his feet into the rough bark. "I can do this as well as* you * can," he growled through gritted teeth at the elf watching him from above. "I can--" Aragorn pulled himself up onto the final branch and sat beside Meneldaion, his muscles going limp with exhaustion.  
  
"If you can do this as well as I can," Meneldaion snapped, "Then why did it take me less than one minute to reach the top when you took nearly ten?"  
  
Aragorn was rather dumbfounded by his question. He had not meant for it to be an insult to the elf, but his own motivational cheer.  
  
"Either way, I accept your challenge," the elf child continued.  
  
"Sorry-what?"  
  
"Your challenge," Meneldaion answered him. "You claimed you could do anything as well as any elf. That sounds like a challenge to my people and I must accept in defense of all elves. And since you said anything, I get to choose. We shall have an archery contest. Each of us gets three arrows to shoot from beside the tree to the target we will set up over there." He pointed to a spot near a long, high wall of bushes at least 50 yards away. "The one with the most points wins. Meet me back here tomorrow at midday, when the sun is high." With that, the two elves quickly scaled down the tree, leaving a very confused Aragorn behind.  
  
  
  
The sun was low in the sky that day before Aragorn got the chance to practice his archery. Dragging the heavy target to the agreed location of the shrub wall, he wondered how he had managed to get himself into this.  
  
Drawing an arrow from the quiver strapped to his back, Aragorn placed it in the bow and drew back his arm, stretching the bowstring to its capacity. He let it go with a twang and watched the arrow sail through the air before meeting its mark on the edge of the target.  
  
Aragorn closed his eyes in frustration. Not good enough. He had been taking archery lessons for some time now, but he had always been considerably closer to the target than this. He didn't suppose it mattered much anyway. Meneldaion was one of the archery champions back when he played in the contests. Naturally, he eventually got too good even for lessons, as all the elves do, and he hadn't taken one in about 150 years. It was endlessly embarrassing for Aragorn, still taking classes with the elf children who, despite being at least a hundred years older than him, still looked so much younger.  
  
Concentrating on the bull's-eye, he drew and shot another arrow. Better he thought when he saw that the arrow had pierced the target not far from the bull's-eye. Better, but still not good enough. It was never good enough. Even if he hit the bull's-eye every time without fail, even if he won every race and could climb every tree, the elves would still look down on him because he was not elf. He was man and he hated it. He heard the other children when they talked about him-they made no attempt to conceal their voices. "Elrond's charity case," they called him. "Elrond felt sorry for the boy and took him in, played father to him." Why couldn't I be an elf? Aragorn thought with tears in his eyes. Why can't I be Elrond's real son?   
  
Recklessly, he grasped an arrow and shot it as fast as he could. It missed the target by several feet, flying over the wall and landing in the grass beyond it. Aragorn lowered his bow. It wouldn't do him any good, this anger against the elves. He needed to stay focused. Choosing an arrow, slowly this time, he aimed and shot, using all of his skill. "Bull's-eye," he whispered, quite pleased. He practiced his aim until the sinking sun made the target little more than a silhouette in the distance.  
  
  
  
Aragorn walked slowly through the field, dragging his feet. The sun shone hot directly above him as he made his way to the tree. Under it waited Meneldaion, along with about ten other elf boys. Aragorn's stomach felt as if it had dropped in his abdomen. This wasn't fair. It wasn't enough for Meneldaion to simply defeat him. He seemed to want to humiliate him in front of everyone.  
  
"Hey, Estel!" the elf called. "I was wondering when you'd show up. Ready to lose?"  
  
"First you shoot, then you can talk, Meneldaion," Aragorn said back.  
  
"Great. I'll go first." The elf child moved gracefully into his stance and pulled an arrow from his quiver. Without hesitation, he released his first arrow, then his second, and then his third. He took no pause in between shots and all his arrows met their mark.  
  
"Three bull's-eyes," he announced triumphantly. Stepping aside, he turned to Aragorn. "Well, Estel, you can't beat me, but you can tie me. Go ahead."  
  
Feeling a little sick to his stomach, Aragorn got into position. As he took an arrow from his quiver, he noticed with dismay that his hands were shaking. Concentrate, Estel. Pretend they are not even here, he thought. Hearing the bowstrings creak under the pressure of his drawback, he aimed and released the arrow.  
  
"A bull's-eye!" an elf yelled.  
  
Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Relax, he told himself. Taking care to be precise with his aim, he tightened the bowstrings once more. You can do this. He let the arrow fly.  
  
"Two bull's-eyes!" the elf yelled again.  
  
Aragorn was * really * anxious now. A drop of sweat dripped from his temple, tickling behind his ear as he prepared the next arrow.  
  
Meneldaion began to look nervous. His elven honor was at stake and he wasn't about to loose it to this-this non-elf, this mortal. "Barely a bull's-eye," he taunted. "I find it hard to believe that this is the charity case who thinks himself good enough to call Lord Elrond father."  
  
Aragorn felt nearly blind with rage. He quickly shot his arrow into the air, just to avoid aiming it at the young elf. Same as yesterday, it sailed over the shrub wall, a good four feet above the target. Different from yesterday, however, was the cry of pain that followed.  
  
"AAAAAHHHHHHHH!"  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
"You SHOT someone?!" Pippin cried out in shock, turning to Aragorn.  
  
"Don't worry, Pippin, no one was * seriously * hurt," Gandalf said. "But you haven't heard the best part yet." The old wizard looked at the ranger. "Go on and tell them who you shot, Aragorn."  
  
Blushing a deep crimson, Aragorn hid his face in his hands. "Lord Elrond," he said softly.  
  
"WHAT?" all four hobbits cried.  
  
"You shot your own father?" Boromir added in disbelief.  
  
"It was purely by accident!" Aragorn said in his defense.  
  
"Oh, but you * still * haven't heard the best part," Gandalf interrupted. "Go on and tell them * where * you shot him."  
  
Both sighing and laughing at the same time, Aragorn told them. "Well, Elrond was taking a walk through his gardens and, as the Valor would have it, he dropped something. So as I shot the arrow, he happened to be bending over--"  
  
"No!" cried Sam in a fit of giggles. "Aragorn, you didn't!"  
  
Aragorn nodded. "I did. Dead center of his left cheek."  
  
The company was quiet for about two seconds. As usual, Pippin took it upon himself to break the silence. "Bull's-eye," he said.  
  
The Fellowship's laughter rang out for miles.  
  
  
  
Aragorn had first watch that night. Wrapping his cloak tightly around his shoulders, he stared out into the distance, lost in his thought. He was, in fact, so lost in them that he didn't even notice the small form settling itself beside him until it spoke.  
  
"I couldn't sleep," Frodo said, causing Aragorn to jump.  
  
"You startled me, little one," he said, and then smiled. "Although, I suppose I'm not a very good watchman if a hobbit can sneak up on me, unnoticed."  
  
"You'd be surprised. Us hobbits can be quite stealthy when we put our minds to it. It comes from years of stealing food." Frodo cleared his throat. "I was thinking about that story Gandalf told. I was wondering if you ever did make friends with any of the elves."  
  
Aragorn lit his pipe and took a puff before he answered. "No. There were those who would let me play with them on occasion, but no one who I would call a friend."  
  
"I'm sorry," Frodo answered, not sure what to say to that.  
  
"Don't be, Frodo. I had two older brothers who treated me as family." He inhaled the smoke once again. "They taught me to hunt and to shoot and never excluded me, even though I was different from them. I also had a father, and it matters not to me what cruel children said to me long ago, he cared for me and loved me as his own."  
  
Frodo nodded. "Someone once made fun of me because I was adopted." He sighed. "They told me that Bilbo didn't care for me as he would a real son. I don't think I was ever so upset in my life, except for when my parents died."  
  
Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand on Frodo's shoulder.  
  
Frodo looked up at him and smiled. "It's ok, Aragorn. I spoke with Bilbo about it later that day, and he told me that he loves me as much as he could ever love any son." Frodo blushed a little.  
  
Aragorn smiled back. "I'm sure he does. No one should ever listen to cruel children."  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"No one should--- what the hobbit child said to you, it was cruel."  
  
"Oh!" Frodo said, understanding. "It wasn't a child. It was my aunt and uncle, the Sackvile-Bagginses."  
  
Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "Your aunt and uncle told you Bilbo didn't like you?" he asked, scarcely believing it.  
  
Frodo chuckled. "Well, they really hated me. You see they would be Bilbo's heirs if not for me."  
  
Aragorn shook his head in disbelief. "Still---. Anyway, you should get to bed, little one. We have much work to do tomorrow." Frodo nodded and left Aragorn with his thoughts once again. He puffed his pipe, rather amused by the fact that he and the little hobbit Frodo Baggins might have something in common. 


	3. Merry and the Pipeweed

Chapter 3 Hey everyone. Hope you're enjoying this story and big thanks to everyone who's reading. No fluff this time. Keeyah, thanks for your review. Unfortunately, I have already decided the order of the characters stories, and Boromir is the sixth chapter. It's worth the wait though, I swear. From what I have planed, Boromir's chapter will be the funniest one.  
  
Ok, so Merry is eighteen, which is like a ten year old.  
  
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"Whose turn is it tonight?" Frodo asked Gandalf as they settled down around the fire, covering up with their blankets. He very much wanted to hear another funny tale to take his mind off the dark landscape of Hollin that stretched for miles all around.  
  
"Mine!" cried Pippin. "Gandalf, tell the one about when I--"  
  
"Enough, Peregrin." Gandalf turned to Frodo. "I am very weary after our long hike uphill. Perhaps the next story could wait until tomorrow."  
  
"Oh, please tell just * one * short, little story! Please?" the hobbits all begged him. Gandalf looked around. It was clear to see that, even though only the halflings voiced their pleas, the other members of the company wished for a story as well. Everyone, that is, except Boromir, who scowled at what he called a 'children's pastime', although he often sat around and listened anyway.  
  
"Well, if everyone wants to hear a story--"  
  
"YES!" seven voices rang back.  
  
"All right then. I will tell about--"  
  
"ME!" Pippin yelled. "I want to hear about--"  
  
"Pippin! Enough!" Gandalf scolded. "I want to tell a * short * story tonight. And even though it takes you virtually no time to get * into * trouble, it often takes you a very long time to get out of it. I think that I shall tell a story about Master Meriodoc this time.  
  
Scowling, Pippin kept quiet.  
  
Gandalf thought for a moment. "Ah, I know the perfect tale. When Merry was a hobbit lad of about eighteen-which, although I'm sure sounds near manhood to you two," he said to Aragorn, and to Boromir, who had finally given up pouting in the cold and gathered around the fire, "it is still a very childish age for hobbits." He glanced over in Merry's direction and watched him make a silly face at his laughing cousin. "As are all the other ages, as far as hobbits are concerned," he added dryly. "Anyway, when Merry was about eighteen--"  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
"Da, couldn't I just try a little bit?"  
  
Saradoc took a long puff on his pipe, blowing a jet of smoke toward the ceiling. "Merry, stop it. You * know * you're not allowed to smoke pipe-weed until you turn 25. That is the law and I'm not about to break it for you." He inhaled once again before continuing. "Besides, you wouldn't like it, son."  
  
"YOU like it," Merry pouted.  
  
"I'm an adult. It's different for adults." Smoke rose from his pipe like the smoke from a dragon's nostrils after it has set a village aflame. To Merry, the smoke clouds looked like half of the fun that his father was keeping from him. "No child could like pipe-weed. Now go put on your nice shirt. Gandalf is coming to visit." With that, Merry's father placed his just finished pipe on the high shelf above the fireplace that housed many other little knick-knacks, and went to prepare the tea.  
  
Sulking, Merry stormed off toward his room when the pouch containing his father's supply of pipe-weed caught his eye. He stopped dead in his tracks. I shouldn't, he thought to himself. Even so, he continued to stare at pipe and its pouch with an eye similar to the one his young cousin got while peering into farmer Maggot's crops. " 't wouldn't be right," he muttered to himself. You're right, it wouldn't, thought the sensible Brandybuck part of his brain. If your Da found out about this, you would get a spanking for certain and likely a week of extra chores. Ah, but why should he find out? Oh yes, there it was. The Took part of his brain, the part that delighted in things such as mushroom pilfering and discovering that Pippin was coming for a visit (which always lead to things such as mushroom pilfering). Merry had been waiting for the Took part of his mind to kick in and join the argument.  
  
He will never know! , the Took in him argued. He's only being mean. He just doesn't want to share it with you. He wants it all for himself and he will * never * give you any! Just smoke a little bit, Merry, just enough to see what all the fuss is about.  
  
Merry's hand reached up toward the shelf, his Took side overpowering the Brandybuck.  
  
What if you go to jail?   
  
His hand froze. The Brandybuck side had not lost after all. That's the law, isn't it? No one under the age of 25 is to smoke pipe- weed. "What do they do to the children who do smoke it?" Merry wondered aloud. He had never bothered to find out as it was never important before. Do they send hobbits as young as me to jail? He did not wish to find out. Slowly he backed away and started toward his room.  
  
If Pippin were here, he would be brave enough! the Took cried out, in one last attempt at victory. Merry stopped. Yes, he would take the pipe-weed without hesitation. He would not be a coward. In fact, he will likely be green with envy that he did not think of it first.  
  
Merry sighed. The Took had won. Glancing around quickly, his young eyes darting about for any sign of his father, he grabbed the pipe and pouch and ran to his room as fast as his legs would carry him.  
  
  
  
"So Gandalf, old friend, did you happen to pass through Bree on your journey here?" asked Saradoc, as he sat in his favorite big chair and sipped his tea.  
  
"Why yes," answered the old wizard. "I went through there to visit a long-time friend of mine, a ranger who lives on the border."  
  
"Uh-hu," Saradoc said, uninterested. Hobbits rarely want to hear about anything but their own affairs. "Did you happen to see any Brandybucks there? I have a sister who just moved to Bree and she was expecting a baby around this time. I would dearly love to know if I have a new niece or nephew."  
  
"Sorry, Saradoc. I'm afraid I didn't meet any of your numerous relatives this time." He chuckled to himself. "I suppose you have more nieces and nephews than you can keep count. Poor Merry must have a terrible time learning his family tree."  
  
Saradoc shook his head with a smile. "Oh yes, I suppose. He certainly knows his Took side well enough, anyway. Every time I turn around, he's gone to Tuckbourgh to visit that Pippin boy." He poured himself another cup of tea while he spoke. "The young Took is coming to stay with us in about a week. I'll have to be on my toes." Saradoc suddenly looked around. "Say, where is Merry anyway? I told him you were dropping by, and he never misses the chance to ask for stories of far away lands." He pulled himself out of his chair. "Excuse me. I think I'll see if I can find him."  
  
"Merry?" Saradoc called as he knocked on his son's door, the wizard just behind him. "Merry, are you in there?" Saradoc opened the door and was greeted with quite a sight.  
  
Merry sat on the end of his bed, his father's pipe in hand, and a small cloud of smoke rising from his surprised mouth. The leather pipe- weed bag sat next to him, partially empty and spilling out onto the bed.  
  
Saradoc's face went slightly crimson with anger. "Merry," he said in a low and threatening voice, "get over here."  
  
Slowly, unsteadily, Merry stood up and staggered over to his father. His thoughts were a little hazy; he wondered to himself who would speak to his father when he opened his mouth: the Brandybuck, speaking in tearful apologies, or the Took, defending himself all the way.  
  
"Merry," Saradoc said, enraged. "You disobeyed me. What do you have to say for yourself?"  
  
Merry opened his mouth to speak, but neither the Brandybuck nor the Took in him got the chance to voice their unclear thoughts. As soon as his mouth was open, he leaned over and vomited all over his father's shirt.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Merry turned near scarlet in the face as the fellowship laughed at the end of his story. "Well, I was still young and foolish back then," he said with an embarrassed smile.  
  
Gandalf laughed. "Yes, yes you were. But you've grown some, haven't you." He turned to the rest of the company. "Once this little one was put to bed, we looked in the pouch. You wouldn't have believed it even if you saw it. That little sneak had smoked near a week's supply."  
  
Aragorn let out a low whistle. "A whole week's supply? It's no wonder you got sick. I'm surprised you didn't pass out!"  
  
"Well, he did sleep for the rest of my visit," Gandalf informed him. "But he never touched the stuff again, while he was underage at least, and don't think I didn't ask his father every time I came by."  
  
Merry shrugged, still a little embarrassed. "I wouldn't have wanted to. It was a long time before I could even be with my Da in a room while he was smoking his pipe."  
  
Gandalf nodded. "You certainly learned not to listen to your Took side again, save for when Pippin was with you." The old wizard yawned and climbed into his bedroll. "Now, that's enough of that," he said. "Let us all get some sleep before daylight comes."  
  
It was not long before the only sound heard for miles was the sound of Gimli's snoring as the travelers slept soundly. 


	4. Gimli and the Caves of Nain's Folly

AN- Thank you all so much for your reviews! This next chapter is my longest so far, and to be honest, not really my best, because it's nearly impossible to write a dwarf as a child. I did what I could, though.  
  
I know that dwarves live much longer than people (something like 300 years), but can you really imagine a dwarf staying a child for very long? Me neither. That's why I'm aging Gimli at normal speed, so 8 = 8.  
  
*****************************************************************  
  
The next day's hike went easier than anyone expected. It was nearly exclusively downhill and the hobbits felt almost as if they were back in the Shire, walking the well-trodden paths and roads. Everyone was in high spirits-until late afternoon when the cold wind that had blown down from the mountains the other day picked up again, worse than ever.  
  
That night found the Fellowship huddled round the fire, their teeth chattering. Frodo and Sam had put on every extra article of clothing they could find and huddled under their blankets. Aragorn had already climbed into his bedroll in hope of fighting off the bitter cold, and Gandalf warmed some water to drink, muttering about the lack of tea. Gimli sat as close to the fire as he could stand, causing Legolas, who was unaffected by cold weather, to warn him not to sit too close, lest he catch his beard on fire. Boromir as well felt mostly untouched by the icy winds. He did, after all, hold claim to the best blanket in the fellowship.  
  
Merry leaned over and whispered something in Pippin's ear. Nodding, the young hobbit approached the Gondorian soldier with his cousin, and simply stared at him.  
  
Boromir cocked his head curiously at the pair. "What?" he asked them, and received no response. "What, what is it?" he asked again. He glanced down at his blanket. "Oh no, you've both got your own blankets, leave mine alone."  
  
"Please, Boromir? Please?" Pippin begged him, which had been part of the plan all along. Merry knew that Boromir favored Pippin best of all the hobbits, and he had decided this method of attack. "We're terribly cold and our blankets are small. Please share."  
  
The soldier sighed, his breath rising in a cloud toward the clear night sky. "Fine, come here." He lifted the blanket and let them each sit next to him. "Don't say I never did anything nice for you," he added. Pippin snuggled up next to him for warmth.  
  
"I think all Big People must have blankets like this, Merry," he said. "They're always so * warm *." Boromir had to laugh at that.  
  
A pine knot in the wood caught fire, causing a loud pop and an eruption of sparks shooting like fireflies in all direction. Gimli jumped back with a startled cry, shielding his beard. Legolas smirked at him. "What did I say, Master Dwarf? If you don't move back, you may not have a beard in the morning. Unless, of course, you wish to stay close to the light for fear the dark."  
  
"Ha!" the dwarf exclaimed. "That's preposterous, elf. There's not a dwarf in all the caves of my homeland that fears the dark, nor has there ever been. We live in the dark, we work in the dark, and we thrive in the dark. No dwarf, for the sake of his pride, would ever admit--"  
  
A rich laugh rang out through the camp. Startled, the elf and dwarf sharply turned their heads toward Gandalf, who seemed to find Gimli's statement amusing. "Sorry, Gimli," Gandalf snickered, "but you reminded me of a tale from your youth."  
  
"Story time!" Pippin cried. He grabbed Boromir's arm and tried to drag him to the fire. "Boromir, let's move closer."  
  
Exasperated, Boromir cried out to the fellowship, "Does no one yet tire of this storytelling?"  
  
"NO!" everyone yelled back. Boromir sighed.  
  
"Now this story," Gandalf continued, "took place when Gimli was an eight year old dwarf child."  
  
Frodo shook his head. "I honestly can't picture a dwarf child," he said.  
  
Gandalf smiled. "Well--- I suppose the best way to describe one would be to picture a very sturdy and feisty hobbit."  
  
*************  
  
The three teenaged dwarves hiked for over a mile through the twisting stone passages, past dark pits that seemed to have no bottom, and rivers that never saw the light of day, having no idea that a smaller creature was following them closely. Soft footed, it crept behind, keeping a safe distance from the others.  
  
"Are we nearly there, Corin?" asked Thrain for the hundredth time. "I thought this place was close to home."  
  
"Yes, we're almost there, so stop your complaining," Corin shot back. "Honestly, you'd think you've never been on a walk before."  
  
They continued walking along for some time before Corin said, "We're almost there, it's just over this rock." He scaled up a large boulder that jutted out onto the path. "I found this place just last week. I don't think anyone else even knows about it." He reached down from the rocks and helped his friends up.  
  
"I don't see what's so great about this," Garin said when he finally reached the top. "It's just a limestone pool. Not like I haven't seen a hundred of those."  
  
"Yea, but look at this." Corin walked over to a giant stick in the corner. He brought it over and stuck the end in. "This stick must be fifteen feet long, and I don't think it even begins to touch the bottom."  
  
"So it's a very deep limestone pool. So what?"  
  
"You know, Thrain, no one cares if you stick around, so if you don't like it--"  
  
"All right, never mind," Thrain griped. " Anyways, at least it's got a place to sit." He walked over to one of the boulders that flanked the pool and sat, his friends following. "Hey, did you guys ever hear this one? A ranger walks into a pub looking for a good time, and he sees a naked elf behind the bar--"  
  
"Hello? Someone help me up!"  
  
"Who was that?" Thrain said, greatly annoyed that someone had interrupted his joke. He made his way back over to the big rock they had climbed and looked over the edge. "Garin, it's your little cousin." He turned back to the young dwarf. "Gimli, go home."  
  
"No, I want to stay with you guys," Gimli called back up.  
  
"You can't, you're not a big kid yet."  
  
"I am so!"  
  
"You are not!"  
  
"I am!"  
  
"You're--"  
  
"Hang on a second, Thrain," Garin broke in. "I've got an idea. Gimli!" he called to the youngster. "Do you want to hang out with us?"  
  
Gimli nodded.  
  
"Ok, you can, but first you have to prove that you're old enough."  
  
Gimli looked at him curiously. "How exactly do I do that?" he asked.  
  
"Simple. Just follow me." Garin climbed down the rock.  
  
Thrain sighed. "More walking--"  
  
The dwarves' hike continued down the rocky paths. Gimli gazed about in wonder, rarely getting the opportunity to venture this far from his home. The stone walls towered above him, seeming to never reach an end, and the cliffs fell to depths he couldn't begin to imagine. They passed scores of dark caves and mine shafts, and the fire from their torches caused the shadows to flicker, as if bringing life to the rocks.  
  
"How much farther, Garin?"  
  
"Not that much more, so shut your mouth!" Garin snapped back at Thrain. Sulking, the dwarf complied and continued to march.  
  
After at least another mile, Garin halted in front of one of the many caves they had passed. "Here it is," he announced triumphantly. "The caves of Nain's Folly"  
  
"The what?" asked Gimli.  
  
Garin stared at him with surprise. "You mean you've never heard the story of King Nain and the elves?" Gimli shook his head. "Well, many years ago," Garin began, "When Nain the first was king, an small group of Mirkwood elves were caught trespassing in one of the secret realms of our land. Naturally, after someone has been captured within the secret realms, they can never be set free again, lest they reveal its location. So Nain locked the elves away in a cell," he gestured toward the dark opening in the wall, "deep in the dark of this cave. The elves were dead within a month."  
  
"Why did they die?" Gimli asked, wide eyed. "Did Nain starve them?"  
  
"Don't be stupid," Garin scolded him. "Dwarves do not starve their prisoners. But wood elves are very strange and mysterious creatures. They draw their life from the trees around them, and in the caves they had no trees. So they simply died."  
  
"I still don't understand why they call it Nain's folly," Gimli interrupted once again.  
  
"Hang on, I'm getting to that," Garin continued. " Not long after the elves had died, Nain found an old writing by Durin. It turns out that Durin's folk had escaped Moria with quite a bit of treasure, enough Mithril to pay for all a dwarf city, if one wanted to. And he had hidden it--" once again, Garin gestured into the cave, "-In the depths of this very cave. Of course Nain sent in a small army of dwarves to recover the treasure, but few were ever seen again."  
  
"W-W-What happened to them?" Gimli stuttered.  
  
"Well you see, of the few who came back, most were insane. But one dwarf of sound mind told the story. They had been marching through the cave and they passed the cell where the elves had been held not so long ago. Suddenly, it was if they were being massacred by the darkness alone. They could hear tortured voices screaming in Elvish demanding their freedom. Those dwarves who were not already dead ran for the entrance, but in their terror some became confused and ran further into the cave. We can only assume they died at the hands of the vengeful spirit of the elves."  
  
By this point, Gimli had edged away from the entrance of the cave. "W-What does this have to do with me?" he asked, dreading the answer.  
  
"Well," said Garin, "If you're such an adult, you have to prove it by going into the caves to claim a piece of treasure."  
  
Gimli's eyes became like twin moons. "In there?" he squeaked, a very unnatural noise for a dwarf.  
  
"That's right. Prove your bravery and we'll let you stay with us. But of course, if you don't want to," Garin smirk, " you can always go home."  
  
Gimli thought this over. He definitely didn't want to set foot in that cave, but he also wasn't happy about being sent home by his older cousin. Especially if everyone was going to think that he was being a baby. Besides, he was sure that Garin was lying-----pretty sure, anyway. "Ok," he said bravely.  
  
"What?" Garin hadn't been prepared for this.  
  
"I'll go," Gimli said, puffing out his little chest. "But you have to give me a torch. I wont go in without some light."  
  
"Uh----sure." Garin took Corin's torch from him and handed it to the small dwarf, who then marched proudly into the cave.  
  
"You're not * really * gonna let him go in there, are you?" Corin exclaimed. "With all those elf spirits? He's only eight!"  
  
"Don't be a moron, Corin. I made all that stuff up. It's just a regular old cave, he'll be fine." Gavin turned to go. "I'm sick of all this stuff, let's go home."  
  
Thrain sighed. "More walking----"  
  
  
  
Now that he found himself alone in the dark, Gimli's façade of bravery quickly crumbled. Garin's tale, which had seemed like such a lie in the company of others came back to him with full force, and each second it gained more and more credibility in his mind. Gimli's breath was soft and quick as he attempted to be a silent as possible, quite a challenge for a dwarf. The rock tunnel slowly grew smaller and tighter, and to Gimli it was a frightening change after having been in the enormous stone halls of the mines not five minutes earlier.  
  
The tunnel began to slope downward and to the left, and Gimli followed it, listening to the soft dripping noise echo off the stone. Only, in his mind it was no longer dripping water, but the sound of elven footsteps creeping up behind him, an elf, a knife in the dark, drawn, ready to strike----  
  
Gimli halted as he reached a sudden fork in the cave. One passage led to the left, the other led right. I need a map he wished in vain. Suppose one passage led to the treasure and the other led to the elves' cell, the sight of the massacre of all those dwarves? But which is which? He must have stared at the dark entrance to those passages for ten minutes, his muscles ridged with the thought of what might be waiting down each, before hearing a loud *THUD * just behind him. His brain only registering blind panic, Gimli flew into the left passage, dropping his torch in a puddle.  
  
The young dwarf ran down the cave corridor until pure reason made him stop. He was now engulfed in complete darkness, and if a pit opened up in front of him he'd have no way to see it. Why did I ever follow Garin, he asked himself. Why did I agree to go into this cave? How am I going to get out of this? Slowly, he made his way back though the cave, gripping the walls. Oh gods, what if I meet up with the elf spirits? Gimli's panicked mind asked. "There's no such thing," he whispered. "There's no such---" "Gimli!"  
  
Gimli froze in place, terror seizing him. Something was calling for him. Something that knew his name! He was done for, certain to be slaughtered by an evil elf ghost seeking revenge.  
  
"Giiiimli!" The voice cried again, a bit louder this time.  
  
Gimli's knees gave way. He slumped against the cold, wet wall and slid down it until he was sitting. Tears sprang to his eyes and he let them fall. He was going to die, and it would be terrible and no one would ever find his body and---  
  
A fluttering sound came from overhead, and the dwarf's heart felt as if it had plummeted to the depths of his belly and beyond. Sick to his stomach, Gimli closed his eyes and awaited doom. The fluttering came closer, and a moment later, something flew past his ear. He cried out in the darkness before a new darkness took hold and the child collapsed onto the stone floor.  
  
********************  
  
"Gimli's father found him passed out on the floor of the cave," Gandalf explained. "He had mistaken the bats circling above him as vengeful elven spirits, as anyone would, of course."  
  
Everyone laughed out loud at that, even Gimli, but no one laughed quite as loud as Legolas. "A dwarf afraid of a bat!" he chuckled. "That's like a wood elf fearing a squirrel." He stopped when he noticed that the whole fellowship was staring at him.  
  
"I had forgotten of that!" Gimli said. "It was weeks before I would go near a mine cave again, and my cousin Garin got quite the punishment, if my memory serves me."  
  
"It does," Gandalf replied. "I believe he was made to stay away from his friends for a month. Though, if I recall, as soon as the month was over he was right back to deciphering new tortures for you, Gimli. Had he gotten a taste of my caster oil punishment, he would have never gone near you again."  
  
"Oh, I learned to avoid him when he was with his friends," the dwarf mused. "Alone, he could be almost friendly."  
  
"Which reminds me," Gandalf broke in dryly. "Legolas. Since you found Gimli's fright to be so amusing, I think I'll tell your tale tomorrow night."  
  
The elf laughed at what sounded like a shallow threat. "And what stories of foolishness do you have on me?" he asked.  
  
"Oh, you'll see," said the wizard. 


	5. Legolas the Elven Prince

A/N: IMPORTANT!!! PLEASE READ!! I wanted to apologies for how long my update took. My computer continues to hate me and I can't always write. Thank you all so much for your reviews, but I think I might have to clear something up. Not all of these stories are intended to be funny. Everyone was all excited for a funny Legolas story, and I just didn't write one. Gimli's wasn't a failed attempt to be funny, either. It just wasn't funny. However, if I'm not sick to death of this story by the end, I'll write a little *bonus chapter* so that you can have your funny Legolas story.  
  
All the Elvish names are elvish words or combinations of elvish words. See if you can figure it out. (On second thought, don't).  
  
Katz Omnipotent King: read to the end. There's a sentence inspired by your review.  
  
This is the longest story, and will likely remain so. I wrote an entire fic before this that wasn't as long as this one chapter.  
  
OK, so Legolas is 320, which is like 12.  
  
*******************************************************  
The heavy footsteps broke the silence atop the hill in Hollin, and eight travelers, all tired and hungry, glanced in their direction. The ranger stepped out of the woods, his expression one of disappointment, his hands empty.  
  
"Well?" asked Pippin.  
  
Aragorn shook his head. "I am sorry, Pippin, but it seems as if there is no bird nor beast in all of Hollin for me to hunt. We will have to make do with our supplies."  
  
Sam began rummaging threw his pack. "Well, we've got plenty of supplies, that's for sure. I'm just not sure it would be wise to use up so much this early on. There * are * nine of us, and the food does go quick."  
  
Aragorn nodded. "Very smart, Sam." The hobbit blushed. "Listen here," Aragorn called out to the camp. "We don't want to use up our food supplies too fast, so everyone tighten your belts and only take what you need. That includes you, Pippin."  
  
Pippin sighed. "I should have just stayed in Tuckbourgh where I can steal all the mushrooms I want when I get hungry."  
"Merry?"  
  
"What Pip?"  
  
"I'm hungry."  
  
Merry shook his head, annoyed. "I know Pip, we all are, but there's nothing we can do about it, so just think of something else."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
Sighing loudly, he said, "I don't know. Think about that time I took you in a boat on the Brandywine." The older hobbit leaned back against the rock and continued to smoke his pipe for the first time in a week. He was nearly out of pipe-weed, but if he was to be denied food tonight, he at least wanted a little smoke to make up for it.  
  
"Merry?"  
  
"What!?" Merry barked back.  
  
"It's not working."  
  
Merry glared at Pippin, irritated. "And what, Pippin Took, do you propose I do, exactly? Go hunting?"  
  
Pippin shook his head. "I don't think that will work, Merry. Strider already tried it." When Merry didn't answer, Pippin continued. "If you want, you could tell me a story. Just to take my mind off it, I mean."  
  
A cloud of smoke rose from Merry's mouth and drifted off into the darkness. "That reminds me," the hobbit said after a moment. "Gandalf!" he called. "You owe us a story about Legolas. Remember?"  
  
Across the camp, the old, gray wizard, who had been lost in his thoughts looked over toward Merry. Even though he shared the same hunger and weariness as the others, he couldn't help but smile at the halflings. "I suppose you are right, Merry. I did promise to tell you a story about the Prince of Mirkwood in his youth. Leave it to a hobbit to suggest a story to solve all problems." Gandalf turned to the camp. "Everyone! Gather around! Master Merry requests a tale."  
  
Happy for the distraction from their hunger, most of the fellowship all made their way to the fire where Gandalf sat. Some, of course, required more motivation than others.  
  
"Boromir!" the wizard called. "Get over here!"  
  
Scowling, the Captain of Gondor responded. "I am an adult and can manage my own time, which I would rather not spend on such childish endeavors as story telling."  
  
"What's wrong, Boromir?" Pippin asked. "Don't they tell stories in Gondor?"  
  
"Of course they do," the wizard broke in. "In fact, there are quite a few stories about the next-in-line for Stewardship known throughout the castle."  
  
"Gandalf---" Boromir warned, marching up to the fire.  
  
"Of course," Gandalf continued, "those stories are not for tonight. I promised a story about Legolas." He glanced up at the fuming soldier next to him. "But as long as you're over here, Boromir, why don't you sit down and listen? It is far more pleasant by the fire than it is in the dark."  
  
Clearly irritated, Boromir found a seat.  
  
"Now," he continued, " I will have to think for a moment, for Legolas' childhood took place over two thousand years ago. Hmmm----- ah yes, I remember. When Legolas was a prince child of about 320 years old---- "  
  
"Three hundred and twenty!" exclaimed Sam.  
  
"Why yes, Master Samwise. Elves do not come of age until their 570 birthday, you see." Gandalf returned to his story. "When Legolas was a young prince of 320, Mirkwood was not as it is today, filled with evil creatures and overbearing trees that did not let in the sun. In fact, save for its size and height, the forest was not much different from the woods around Tuckbourgh."  
  
********************  
  
"Does * no one * have any ideas about what we could do today?"  
  
In a clearing amidst the great forest of Mirkwood, five elven boys stood in a semi-circle and discussed the day's plans. The oldest of these boys was Otaril, and he towered over the others with a kind of warrior stance that demands attention. His friends gave him this insisted authority and respect out of fear only, however, for although he possessed great strength, he paid for it dearly. Otaril almost completely lacked all of the elven qualities that boys his age often have. He was neither quick nor nimble, and his hunting skills were poor, as he could never seem to move quietly through the underbrush; instead he crashed though with heavy footsteps, announcing his presence to all who were within a mile. It was occasionally remarked that, had he been born human, he would have made an exceptional soldier of Gondor or Rohan, but as an elf----- well, he seemed more than a little lacking.  
  
"Well? Surely there must be * something * to do," Otaril said as he paced in front of the other boys, much like a general preparing his troops before battle.  
  
The boys were silent for a moment before Raime broke in with, "Well, I suppose we could go hunting." He had gotten a new bow for his birthday last week and was eager to try it out.  
  
Otaril shook his head. "No, I don't like hunting. Someone think of something else."  
  
"We could go fishing," Nioril said. Nioril was the only one of the elves who was Otaril's friend because he wanted to be; perhaps because he lacked in intelligence even more than what Otaril lacked in elven ability.  
  
Otaril nodded. "Yes, fishing sounds good. Come everyone, let's go fish." He began to march loudly through the forest, the others following after him in single file.  
  
"Hey! Wait! Can I come?"  
  
Startled, the elven boys all turned to look behind them, searching for the owner of the voice.  
  
"Hey! Up here!"  
  
All five boys glanced up into the trees. There amongst the leaves, standing on a branch, was another elf boy, about their age. He leaped from his perch and landed in front of the group with hardly a sound. "Hello. Can I go fishing with you?"  
  
"Hello, Prince Legolas," said Raime, greeting him with a bow, as was customary. Legolas flushed a bit at this unwanted draw of attention to his title. Otaril flushed as well, but with different cause.  
  
"So can I go fishing with you?" Legolas asked again.  
  
"No!" Otaril exclaimed before anyone else could answer.  
  
Legolas furrowed his brow. "Well, why not?"  
  
"Because."  
  
"Because why?"  
  
"Because I don't want you to go," Otaril said coldly. "Don't you have more important things to do, * little prince-ling*. Why don't you go play with your entourage."  
  
"My------my what?"  
  
"What are you, stupid?" Otaril laughed. Nioril snickered as well, mostly to hide the fact that he didn't know the meaning of the word any more than Legolas did. "Your entourage. Your household servants."  
  
"Oh," Legolas said, embarrassed. "I'm not allowed to play with the servants."  
  
Otaril's eyes narrowed. "Are you saying you're too good to play with servants? Because my father works in the palace, so if you're too good for him, maybe you shouldn't play with me either." With that, Otaril turned back to the others. "Come. Let's go fishing and leave this prince brat to order his kingdom around." He marched with heavy footsteps into the underbrush and, after a quick glance back, the others followed.  
  
"Wait!" Legolas called softly. "Wait, that wasn't what I meant. I'm just not allowed to play with the servants while they're on duty!" If anyone heard his call, they didn't turn back. Sighing, he sat down on a rock at the edge of the clearing. No one wanted to play with him, and just because he was a prince. It wasn't fair, he didn't ask to be born into royalty and he didn't much like it anyway. There was always more lessons, more classes, more he had to learn because he would one day rule. Considering how much time he spent learning, Legolas would have thought it impossible for him to feel as lonely as he did, but he often walked around the forest with nothing to do and wishing for friends. Well, sitting here feeling sorry for yourself isn't going to help things he thought. After all, it was a public river. They couldn't very well keep him away from it. Smiling, he hopped down from the rock. I'll just go down there and talk to some of them. One of them is bound to be friendly. Armed with a plan, Legolas started off through the underbrush, toward the river.  
The river that ran through the eastern side of Mirkwood shone brightly in the midday sun, the quiet surface shimmering. It was called the Sirevilya, or the river sky, because on a clear day the water reflected a perfect image of the sky above, never more beautiful when the sun hung directly overhead. This inspired the well-known myth that the Sirevilya was jealous of the sky and would attempt to steal the sun from her each day, although after a few hours the river was always forced to give the sun back, lest the heat dry him up to nothing. Though all of this was simply lore, few could deny that the river almost held a sort of mystic serenity in its waters, and even the trees seemed reluctant to drop their leaves to its surface.  
  
Today, however, all its elven serenity was lost the moment Otaril splashed his feet into the river and dropped his hook under the cool water. The other boys followed his lead and let the currant run over their feet as they baited their hooks. Otaril smiled as a breeze skimmed the glass- like surface of the Sirevilya, creating little ripples. He was glad he'd made all his friends come here today. This river was a favorite place of his, and besides that, fishing was one of the few things at which he excelled.  
  
A sudden soft rustle in the bushes caused him to turn his head in surprise. He watched as Legolas emerged from the forest into the clearing by the banks of the Sirevilya. His brow furrowed. What was * he * doing here?  
  
"Hey!" Otaril called to the young prince. "I thought I told you you're not invited." The other boys' eyes all shot down to their poles; they didn't want to get in trouble with Otaril, but they had been taught since birth that they were to respect those in positions of power, and that certainly meant the prince.  
  
"This isn't a private river, Otaril," Legolas said bravely. "You can't make me leave." To this, Otaril had no answer. He turned his attention back to fishing, but out of the corner of his eye he watched the elf leave the edge of the woods and settle down on a patch of grass next to Raime. He couldn't believe it. This boy was trying to take over his friends and no one was going to stop him----- and just because he was a prince.  
  
Otaril fished a while longer, but his mind was no longer on catching the biggest fish. Instead he secretly stared out of the corner of his eye at Legolas and Raime as they talked to one another, waiting for Legolas to swoop in and steal his friend, watching for the elf's tactic. There it was. Raime was laughing at one of Legolas' jokes. He had to get rid of this prince-ling.  
  
"You know what my father said yesterday?" he announced suddenly. "He said that Thranduil is the worst ruler that Mirkwood has seen in a long time."  
  
Legolas paused in the middle of his conversation with Raime. "What?" he asked, making sure he'd heard correctly.  
  
"You heard what I said."  
  
Legolas stood up and slowly made his way over to Otaril. Even standing at his full height of four foot nine, he still came only to Otaril's chin, but it didn't matter. He couldn't simply let an insulting remark about his father slide. "Take it back," he said, trying to sound as threatening as possible. In actuality, his voice shook and he looked terrified.  
  
"And why should I?" Otaril taunted. "My father's right. He says that Thranduil is such a coward that he makes deals with the dwarves to avoid war with them." He took a step closer to Legolas and looked down on the prince, his expression one of smug victory. "Your father knows he couldn't even win a war against the stupid, clumsy dwarves."  
  
Legolas was shocked. No one had ever talked this way to him before, and he certainly never heard anyone say such things about his father. He had to do something, but he couldn't just * hit * Otaril, or he was done for. Either way, he at least had to insult this boy back.  
  
"The stupid, clumsy dwarves, you say?" Legolas said, both angry and afraid. "Well, I suppose you would know a lot about them. From what I've seen of your hunting, you must be one of their close relatives."  
  
Legolas watched as Otaril's face turned bright red, his eyes narrowing into tiny slits. There was little doubt in his mind what was coming; Otaril was not the kind of elf who lets * anyone * get away with an insult, whether they be prince or peasant.  
  
Legolas saw the fist headed for his face just before it hit home, but he didn't have time to duck. It slammed into his nose and he felt a sharp burst of pain that left him dizzy for a moment. He could feel a thin ribbon of blood running out onto his shirt. Shaking away the pain, Legolas raised his fist and hit Otaril squarely on his left eye.  
  
If he felt any pain, Otaril didn't show it. Instead, he yelled for back up. "Hey, everyone come help me! Come on, let's get him!" Nioril ran in and pushed Legolas down, but the other boys simply stood and watched, their mouths open with shock. Otaril was beating up the prince! No one had ever done such a thing, nor had it ever entered their minds that they might.  
  
I have to get away though Legolas, who was now receiving a kick from Nioril as he lay on the ground. I cannot win this fight. Doing what he could to ignore the pain in his side and nose, Legolas quickly jumped to his feet and darted off into the forest. If they decided to follow him, neither Otaril nor Nioril had much chance of catching up to him, even when he was hurt.  
The plants and underbrush rushed by Legolas as he continued to run through the trees. Finally, he felt as if he could run no more, and he slowed to a walk and continued to wander aimlessly amongst the woods. Tears were streaming down his face, and he let them fall because there was no one around to witness his babyish crying. It's not FAIR! he thought angrily. Otaril has lots of friends and I just wanted to have one. It's not fair  
  
After some time, Legolas realized that he'd wandered far from the river and now had no idea where he was. This area of the forest was unfamiliar to him, the trees thicker and more overshadowing than the ones near the palace. He didn't wander this far from home. He didn't really care, though. He could wander these woods forever and no one would come looking for him. But that's not true Legolas thought to himself; he knew in his heart that if he ever went missing, his father would have half the forest searching for him. Even so, hadn't he earned a little self-pity? If he wanted to sit on that rock all day and cry because nobody liked him, wasn't that his right?  
  
So caught up in his sorrow was Legolas, that he failed to notice a dim light shinning through the dark trees, approaching steadily. In fact, he was so oblivious that he did not see the rider of the great black stallion until the horse was nearly upon him.  
  
"Hello, young Legolas," said a raspy voice, and the elf child looked up, startled to find that he was no longer alone.  
  
"Mithrandir!" Legolas cried out.  
  
The wizard smiled down from his place on the giant steed. "Yes, it's me. I'm here to discuss important matters with your father." His brow suddenly furrowed with concern. "What happened to your nose, child?"  
  
Legolas looked confused for a moment before he remembered. He placed a finger just above his mouth and pulled it away to see that he was still bleeding some. "Oh, I got in a fight with another boy," he said, quickly wiping the faint tear tracks off of his cheeks, hoping that Mithrandir wouldn't notice.  
  
The wizard raised an eyebrow at him. "Now Legolas, you know better than to get into fights. As a prince, you should have conducted yourself in a more civil manner."  
  
A bright anger flashed in the young prince's eyes, and he hopped down from his place on the rock and began to yell at Mithrandir in a way that few before him had dared. "Well, I'm * sick * of being a prince!" he hollered. "Why should I have to act any different from all the other boys? None of them want to play with me because I'm a * Prince *! They don't like me! No one does!"  
  
Mithrandir shook his head, still a little taken aback at the force of Legolas' words. "You * know * that's not true. Many people like you. * I * like you, and I still would even if you weren't a prince."  
  
"No one my own age likes me," Legolas said bitterly.  
  
"Well," the wizard answered. "Perhaps we might be able to remedy that. But first," he said reaching down a hand and pulling the elf onto his horse, "You are quite a ways from home, young one." He leaned over and spoke softly into the horse's ear and the great stallion began his trek through the forest once again.  
Legolas was lost in the middle of a daydream- mostly involving pounding Otaril into the ground- when the horse beneath him suddenly halted, shaking him from his thoughts. He looked around- they were nowhere near home.  
  
"Mithrandir, why are we---"  
  
"Shhhh. Look."  
  
Legolas' eyes followed Mithrandir pointing hand to a fallen log, some forty feet away. On this log sat an elf boy, bent over and staring at the ground as if in great concentration.  
  
"Why don't you go introduce yourself?" the old wizard said.  
  
Legolas eyed the wizard questioningly. "He's a bit younger that me, don't you think?"  
  
"Oh, not that much I imagine," Mithrandir said. "Go ask him. What do you have to loose?" To that, Legolas had no reply. Slowly he climbed down from the horse and approached the boy.  
  
"Hello," he said softly. "I'm----"  
  
"Shhhh!" the boy broke in, still sitting still as a statue.  
  
Legolas was confused. He was trying to be friendly and this boy had already rejected his friendship before he'd had the chance to say more than two words. And what was he staring at? Legolas followed his gaze to the bush just beyond the dirt clearing. Even with his elven eyes he nearly missed it, it was so still. A small thrush stood perched on a twig, its eyes darting about in constant search of predators.  
  
"There. Finished," the boy said to himself. "Now what were you saying---" He glanced up at the stranger behind him only to find that it wasn't really a stranger at all. "Oh! You're Prince Legolas." The boy stood and bowed.  
  
Legolas blushed. "Really, you don't have to---"  
  
"I'm sorry I hushed you earlier. I was just watching that bird so that I could draw it and I thought you might scare it away. My name is Forostar. Pleased to meet you."  
  
"Pleased to meet you as well," Legolas replied before glancing down at the ground to see what Forostar had been doing. "This is beautiful," he said. The boy had been using a stick to draw pictures in the dirt and the small grooves in the ground formed the image of a bird so lifelike that Legolas thought if he were to touch it, it might fly away.  
  
"Thank you," Forostar said, a modest blush to his cheeks.  
  
"And this one," Legolas added, finding another picture, this one of an archer prepared to fire. "You are very talented."  
  
"Thank you," the elf boy repeated, not quite sure what to say. He'd never imagine that the prince might critique his work. "I've been practicing---"  
  
Legolas came to a drawing of the front of the palace, his home. Everything was perfect, down to the smallest detail. Forostar had drawn the stairs leading up to the door, the stone carving to the left side of the window, even the ivy that crept high to the roof on the wall near his room. "This--- this must have taken you * hours *."  
  
"Well, yes," he answered. "I didn't work on it all today, of course. That would have been far too much work, especially since I had to keep running back to see the palace. You know, make sure I had everything in the right place." He smiled a bit at the thought. "It's beautiful--- the palace I mean. You're so lucky to get to live there."  
  
"Well--- if you want, I could take you to go see it."  
  
Forostar's eyes lit up. "Really? That would be great!"  
  
"Sure. Just let me go tell Mithrandir." Legolas gazed around through the trees, but it seemed that the wizard had already left for the palace.  
  
************************************************************  
  
"Wait a minute!" Gimli interrupted. "That shouldn't count. I thought you were going to tell an embarrassing story about him, like you did me."  
  
Gandalf blinked at him. "I never said that."  
  
"Yes you did! You said you had a foolish tale to tell about Legolas. I was looking forward to laughing at him!" the dwarf sulked.  
  
Gandalf shook his head. "I said I had a story to tell about Legolas. I never said it would be foolish, he simply assumed that it would be. I'm afraid, Gimli, that you will have to find something else over which you might tease him. If it is so important to you, that is."  
  
"*Are* there any foolish tales of Legolas' youth?" Pippin asked. He couldn't imagine the wise elf caught up in any of the various activities that had gotten him into trouble so long ago. Well, not actually that long ago. More like last week.  
  
"Certainly there are," Gandalf answered him. "I believe he one time fell out of a tree. Most unusual for a wood elf, or any elf for that matter. And of course there was the incident with the flying squirrel and the open bedroom window---"  
  
"But we will not speak of that tonight," Legolas broke in nervously.  
  
Gandalf laughed. "No, I suppose not. It's getting late. Those are stories best left for another day."  
  
"Or best left untold altogether," said Legolas.  
  
Gandalf grinned. "We'll see." 


	6. Boromir and the King

A/N. Hey everyone! I very much appreciate all the reviews I'm getting. Unlike my Legolas story and Gimli story, I have really been looking forward to writing this one. While the last two were long labors for me which I eventually ended up disliking, I wrote this over two days and it just kind of flowed for me. I think it's at least as good as my Frodo and Aragorn stories. I hope everyone enjoys this.  
  
Since Boromir is human, 5 = 5. *********************************************************  
  
"Does NO ONE yet tire of this storytelling?"  
  
"NO!"  
  
Boromir sighed, another battle lost. He was not used to this, this * loosing * all the time. He gave a last glance over his shoulder into the darkness, wondering how bad it would be to leave the fire and brave the cold.  
  
"Honestly Boromir, what do you have against these stories anyway?" Pippin asked him. "They're all in good fun."  
  
Before he could answer, Gandalf interrupted their conversation. "I know what troubles him so much about it--- he knows what embarrassing stories I might tell about him."  
  
"And what stories might those be?" Frodo asked curiously.  
  
"Hey, wait a minute!" Boromir protested.  
  
"Oh, have a sense of humor," Gandalf laughed. "I promise I wont tell any tales that are * too * humiliating. In fact, I have the perfect one. When Boromir was a lad of about five--"  
  
"Gandalf!" the soldier broke in. "Do you remember what I told you I would do if you ever told that story again?"  
  
"Hmmm now, let's see---- ah yes, you told me that you would cleave my old, gray head in two with your sword." The wizard grasped the staff at his side and looked Boromir in the eye. "Would you like to try it, O great Captain of Gondor?"  
  
For a moment, Boromir's eyes shot to the sword at his side as if he were actually considering it. Then, with a great sigh he gave in and sat down between Merry and Pippin who each took a corner of his cozy blanket and snuggle in beside him. "Go on, Gandalf," Pippin said. "When Boromir was five---"  
  
"Traitor," Boromir growled.  
  
"Well," Gandalf began again. "When Boromir was five, he lived in the palace in Minas Tirith."  
  
************************************************************  
  
The maid had lived in the castle a long, long time. She was well accustomed to the sound of the soldiers and guards, the heavy fall of their boots on the hard floor as they changed their post. Today, however, the footfalls approaching behind her were not heavy enough to belong to a soldier, nor did they sound like the hurried patter of the other servants. A smile of recognition played across her lips as she placed the familiar noise, and she greeted the child before she even turned around.  
  
"Hello, Master Boromir."  
  
Boromir marched over to face the woman, clad in clothes that made him look like a miniature soldier of Gondor, save for the sword at his side that was made of wood. He pivoted on his left foot, his soft, reddish- brown hair swinging about his shoulders, and placed his hand on his heart in salute.  
  
"Hello, ma'am," he said.  
  
Hardly able to contain the laughter bubbling up in her chest, the maid humored the boy and saluted him back, shifting the basket of laundry onto her hip. "And what are you up to today, young master?" she asked.  
  
Boromir beamed with pride. "The Captain of the Guard is off fighting a battle far away, beyond the Pelennor fields, so I will fill in for him today."  
  
The maid nodded, giving in to her amusement and indulging his childish fantasy. "I see. And what is the Captain of the Guard doing off his post?"  
  
Boromir glanced around the hall as if to be certain that they were really alone before he gestured for her to bend down so that he could whisper in her ear. With a deadpan expression, he said to her, "I'm searching the castle for orc spies."  
  
"Is that so?" she played along. "Well then, I most certainly should let you be on your way. Why don't you go check in your room? I think I may have seen an orc hiding under your bed."  
  
Boromir nodded, his expression as serious and grim as the face of an experienced soldier about to go into battle. And why shouldn't it be? The child had spent many nights dealing with the foes that dwelt under his bed. Raising his hand in salute once more, he said, "Yes ma'am," and turned to march down the hallway in the direction of his room. As soon as he was out of earshot, the amused maid buried her mouth in her hand and gave into her laughter.  
  
The woman smiled down so lovingly at the yawning baby in her arms, it was almost as if he were her own. True, she had been a nurse for some years now and had watched over many children, but few were so dear to her as the sons of the Steward. She had lived in the castle since the day of Boromir's birth and knew the boy as well as his own mother.  
  
A soft creaking noise drew her attention from the baby, and she glanced up at the door. It had been open a bit, and a green eye was peering at her through the crack.  
  
"Hello Boromir," she said.  
  
"Hello Lady Eleyna," the child answered. "Are there any orcs in here?"  
  
"Orcs? Why no, certainly not in the nursery. Why?"  
  
Feeling much braver now that the coast was clear, Boromir slipped into the room and went to stand beside his nurse and baby brother. "I'm searching the castle for orcs spies. I think there was one under my bed, but he must have escaped because I looked everywhere for him, behind my dresser, in the closet, behind the drapes---"  
  
"Wait a moment," Eleyna hushed him. She knew Boromir well, and she was quite certain that if she didn't stop him now, he would likely tell her every place he looked as well as every place he * intended * to look. "Boromir, I don't think that there are any orcs in the castle. The guards wouldn't let them pass the gate."  
  
"Yes, but today * I * am Captain of the Guard and it is my responsibility to make sure that no orcs get to Faramir."  
  
Eleyna smiled at him. "That is very sweet, little one, but I can watch over Faramir just fine. I wont let any orcs get him."  
  
Boromir made a face. Little one indeed. What kind of name was that for one who watched over Minas Tirith? He vowed to himself that even if he grew to be as big as father and lived for a hundred years, he would * Never * call anybody 'little one' "Father says that I have to protect Faramir since I'm his big brother, even if I don't want to."  
  
"Why would you not want to?"  
  
Boromir looked at the baby with distaste. "Because he's * boring *" the five year old proclaimed. "All he ever does is eat and sleep, and besides he smells funny."  
  
"One day I'm sure you will like him," she said.  
  
Boromir honestly didn't think so, but he dropped it. "Lady Eleyna, will you play soldiers with me?" he asked hopefully, knowing that playing soldiers with a girl was still better than playing soldiers alone. His face fell as she shook her head.  
  
"I wish I could, little one, but I have to bathe Faramir. Maybe later."  
  
Boromir sighed. "Lady Eleyna, why do you always call me 'little one'?" he asked.  
  
Eleyna looked surprised at the question. "Because you are my little one, Boromir."  
  
"But I'm somebody's big brother!"  
  
She laughed at the important tone in his voice, as if he were announcing a respected title. "That you are. But to me, you are still very little." She turned her attention back to the baby resting in her arms and watched him gurgle and blow a bubble. A sharp giggle startled her and she looked up to see Boromir laughing at the baby.  
  
"He blew a spit bubble!" the boy cried with glee. "He's not as good as me, though." Boromir then began to blow his own bubbles, proving his superiority over the infant.  
  
"Boromir, please don't do that, it's rude," Eleyna chided him. "Why don't you go outside and play with the other boys?"  
  
"I can't," he answered. "Father told me that if I stayed inside and kept clean all day, he would let me ride out with him to greet the King of Rohan and Mithrandir."  
  
"Truly, little one? That is a special honor."  
  
Boromir nodded and Eleyna could clearly see in his eyes that he regarded this new privilege with the utmost importance. "Anyway," she continued, "You could play with your friends inside."  
  
"I don't want to. I don't like playing with Beregond. He never lets me be the captain when we play soldiers. He says I'm too dumb to be captain."  
  
"Now that's just not true, Boromir. You are very smart."  
  
"Really?"  
  
She nodded. "Of course. Your father said so himself. He thinks you're quite precocious for a five year old."  
  
Boromir smiled. He had no clue what 'precocious' meant, but it sounded nice.  
  
"Now run along so that I might give your brother a bath," Eleyna added.  
  
Boromir nodded and started out the door. "Good bye, Lady Eleyna," he said, and trotted out into the hall. Just outside the nursery, he noticed a maid, one that he had never seen before. Deciding to introduce himself, he marched up to the woman. "Hello, ma'am. I'm Boromir," he said, his had on his heart in a Gondorian salute. The maid stared down at this tiny soldier, not quite sure what to say. Boromir continued to wait for his return salute, proudly adding, "Father thinks that I'm pre-soakous." Seeing that no return salute was forthcoming, Boromir bid goodbye, then turned on his heal and continued his orc hunt, leaving behind one very confused maid.  
  
The afternoon sun shone down harshly on the backs of the small group of guards who accompanied the Steward to greet the King. In front of one of the guards sat Boromir, his hands gripping to the mane of the stallion on which he rode to the outer circle of Minas Tirith.  
  
****************************************************  
  
"Gandalf, please don't tell this," Boromir pleaded. "No one wants to hear it. I'm sure they'd much rather hear a story about---"  
  
"Boromir, be quiet, and if you interrupt me again, I'll tell them all about the time you thought you could fly." The man shut his mouth.  
  
******************************************************  
  
Boromir had never been this far from the castle before; indeed, it was rare that he ever ventured a journey further than the third circle of the city, even with father. There was much to see, and he daydreamed about how nice it would be when he was old enough to leave the palace alone and explore the fields beyond the White City.  
  
They continued down the path, past some farmland and rolling green fields before coming to a stop on the road. Boromir tried to glance passed the horse's head to see if he could spot the King approaching, but he dared not even shift in the saddle. To be honest, horses frightened him terribly, and he hated having to ride on one so tall, especially now that he wasn't wearing his soldier clothes. Father had chosen some garment that he deemed more suitable for King greeting, although Boromir could not understand how anyone could think that * any * clothes conveyed the same pride as his beloved soldier uniform.  
  
Finally, the King and his guards came into Boromir's view. He quickly recognized the wizard, who was hard to miss with his big, pointed hat and his long, gray beard, and beside him rode the King of Rohan. Boromir didn't have to be told which rider the King was, for this man was set apart by his regal clothes and all around kingly appearance. He sat high in his saddle and halted his horse before the Steward.  
  
"Greetings, King of Rohan and Gandalf Greyham," Boromir heard his father say. Gandalf Greyham? Who is that? Boromir wondered to himself. He must be speaking of Mithrandir, for he always wears gray, but why doesn't he just call him Mithrandir? That is his name, isn't it?   
  
"And this is my oldest son, Boromir,"  
  
Boromir's eyes shot to his father and he quickly remembered what he was to do. Bowing as best he could on horseback, Boromir said, "I am honored to meet you, Thengel, King of Rohan." He glanced at his father who was beaming with pride. Boromir smiled. He had done well.  
  
Now that his part in this was over, he found himself quite bored as his father finished speaking all the courtesies of the house of Gondor. He had never thought that greeting a king might prove to be such a tedious and dull job. He gazed about at his surroundings and noticed for the first time that they had halted near a farmer's pasture. What looked like a hundred sheep grazed lazily, and Boromir decided to count them to alleviate his boredom while the Steward droned on.  
  
"We have much business to discus on---"  
  
14, 15, 16 ---  
  
"I've had the servants prepare your quarters---"  
  
22, 23, 24---  
  
"So I'm sure you'd like to---"  
  
"WHAT ARE THEY * DOING *?!"  
  
All eyes were suddenly on the Stewards young son, whose voice had rang out and interrupted his father. Gandalf followed the boy's shocked stare toward the field and quickly realized what the boy had seen. He raised an eyebrow.  
  
*****************************************************************  
  
Gandalf paused his story here, obviously enjoying the look of suspense that the band of travelers wore.  
  
"Well?" Merry asked. "What did he see?"  
  
Gandalf smiled. "You have to understand, Merry. Boromir had lived his whole life up to that point in the city, and had never ventured beyond its walls. He had no knowledge of the ways of farm animals and their behavior. What he saw," the wizard glanced over at Boromir, who was cringing. "What he saw were some sheep who happened to be mating. Something he pointed out rather loudly to the King."  
  
Pippin watched Boromir buried his face in his hands as the group burst into laughter. He was blushing so brightly that, with his beard, Pippin thought he looked rather like a fuzzy tomato.  
  
"It wasn't so funny at the time!" the man cried out. "You should have seen Denethor's face."  
  
"Yes," Gandalf agreed. "I don't think I've ever seen him turn quite that color, before or since."  
  
"Did you get punished?" Frodo asked. "Did Gandalf force caster oil down your throat?"  
  
Boromir thought for a moment. "No, I think I had to sit in my room for the day, though. And I got an endless lecture from my father."  
  
"* Two * lectures, I believe," Gandalf broke in. "One on knowing when to keep your mouth shut, and the other to answer your earlier question: what exactly those sheep were doing." The old wizard laughed in remembrance. "I'll never forget the look on your little face when I saw you at dinner. It was the first time in your life you had ever been stunned to silence."  
  
Boromir flushed red once more as the laughter rang out again. "That's enough! I think I've had more than my share of humiliation this evening." He turned to Gandalf. "You wont tell any more stories about me?" he said, half in question and half in command. "It's someone else's turn tomorrow?"  
  
The wizard chuckled. "No, no more stories about you. Though it's a bit of a shame, seeing as how I have * so * many tales, like the time---"  
  
"Stop!" Boromir cried. The Gondorian grabbed the sword at his side by the hilt. "Gandalf," he began, "I think that if you ever try to tell that story again, I * will * have to make an attempt on your life, staff or no staff."  
  
Gandalf smiled at him. "We'll see."  
  
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I hope you all enjoyed this. I need a little break from these stories, mostly so I can decide what will happen to Sam and Pippin, but don't worry, I'll be back in a little while. Less than a month, I'm pretty sure. 


End file.
